


Fueled By Shuffle

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Author regrets nothing, Bandom - Freeform, Everybody is gay, Except Listening To Owl City, Fanon Characterizations Abound, Multi, Random AF, Travie Is Pervy, everything but the kitchen sink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Just your average Fueled By Ramen party.





	Fueled By Shuffle

**Author's Note:**

> I put my iPod on shuffle and wrote a fic inspired by the first ten songs that came up. 
> 
> That was ten years ago and the musical choices are appropriately lol-worthy.

_**I took a step back  
as the room was filling up  
and I was packed against these people  
and we’re tossing up a strong vibe.**  
-Neighbors, The Academy Is…_

  
  
  
Pete’s place is full by the time Gabe gets back from his booze run, and the blasting music and packed bodies and ridiculous sexual tension are already steaming up the windows. He takes a deep breath and plunges into the melee.  
  
“Here, take your bitchass shit, and if you get drunk off that, I swear…” Gabe says (shouts, over the music) and tosses a bottle of Smirnoff Ice to Cassadee.  
  
“Just because we didn’t all grow up with tequila instead of blood,” she laughs, getting this flirtatious glint in her eyes that Gabe chooses to ignore.  
  
“No, but seriously, that stuff’s for fags and lightweights,” Gabe sniffs, and pre-emptively adds, “I can say it because I am one.” She rolls her eyes and walks off. Gabe’s both appalled and fascinated by how white her teeth are, and makes a note to look into those Whitestrip things.  
  
“Peter Panda, where the fuck are you,” he sing-songs, dodging dancers and heading for the kitchen. “Get a room,” he shouts to Victoria and Ryland, who are grinding in a manner typical to Gabe himself. Then there’s Brendon, who’s shoving his ass into Travie’s crotch with almost unnatural enthusiasm. Gabe would swear the kid was a stripper in a past life.  
  
But when he reaches the kitchen, Mikey and Pete are shouting at each other already (or, like, Pete is shouting and Mikey is being Mikey) and Gabe hovers for a second before deciding he really doesn’t want to get involved in this again.  
  
“You’re the one who’s more interested in his eyeliner than his boyfriend,” Mikey says flatly as Gabe’s making his exit, and Gabe can’t help but chuckle a little.  
  
SexyBack comes blasting through the speakers, and Gabe really wants to get out on the floor and show Victoria and Ryland how it’s done because, face it, this is his song, but there’s still the issue that his arms are full of bottles of alcohol and he hasn’t seen William yet. Plus he’s not drunk yet, and that’s Priority Number One at any party.  
  
The Beer Drinkers (Andy, Joe, Spencer, Jon, and Mike Carden) are clustered around the TV, playing Call Of Duty. Gabe deposits three sixpacks on the table, and gets grunts of thanks.  
  
Gabe sorts through the bag that’s left in his arm. Grey Goose, that’s for William and Ryan, the picky little princesses. Jack Daniels for Hayley, because whatever she tells magazines about God and crap, that girl can party. Wine cooler for Katy, who clearly fails at partying. Mango rum for Butcher and Sisky, which, what the fuck. Some pre-mixed margarita shit for Patrick. Aha! Jose Cuervo.  
  
Gabe sets the bag down on the dining room table, shouting, “Come get your booze, kids!” and twists off the top of his own bottle. He takes a long drink, ignores the burn, and sets off to find William.  
  
Time to get the party started.  
  
  
  


_**What I need is a good defense,  
'cause I'm feelin' like a criminal.  
And I need to redeemed to the one I've sinned against  
because he's all I ever knew of love.  
Heaven help me for the way I am.  
Save me from these evil deeds  
before I get them done.**  
-Criminal, Fiona Apple_

  
  
  
Pete stays in the kitchen long after Mikey storms out, collapsing against the side of the island and sliding like the worthless pile of shit he is onto the ground.  
  
Idiot. Fucking idiot.  
  
He kneads his forehead with the palms of his hands. This was not supposed to go that way. Fucking conscience. Fucking idiot.  
  
He didn’t mean it, really. It was just a little kiss, little and insignificant and barely any tongue, and it was just because it felt kind of natural in the moment. It was Patrick, after all. But at the moment, when Pete had been three drinks in and loving the world, kissing seemed very appropriate.  
  
His conscience caught up afterward, making these hot snaking coils of guilt, not unlike stage fright, squirm and writhe in his stomach. His conscience forced the words out of his mouth before his brain had any say in the matter. Mikey kissed him hello and Pete just spat it out: “I kissed Patrick.”  
  
Goddamn motherfucking idiot conscience. Shit.  
  
Pete stares morosely at the linoleum, wondering what he did in a past life to deserve being such a dumbass.  
  
It wasn’t like it was a perfect relationship. Far from it. They were both too needy, too emotional, too unstable. Pete had been moody and irrational even before Mikey; add love into the mix, and he was a mess, lashing out when Mikey didn’t give him enough attention, crying for days when Mikey responded to this lashing out with the silent treatment, high as a fucking kite when they finally had make-up sex, slowly talking himself into that dark place where he wasn’t good enough and he didn’t deserve this, freaking out at the slightest hint that he was right…  
  
The sex was pretty fucking amazing though. And the fact that they were so similar, that Pete could tell Mikey about all the old insecurities and irrational fears and Mikey just _understood_ , that was a fucking rush.  
  
And now it’s over, and he’s pretty sure he wants to die.  
  
Someone steps on his foot. He doesn’t move.  
  
“What you doin’ down there, man?” says Ryland, leaning down so he’s at eye level with Pete, or he would be if Pete wasn’t still staring at the linoleum.  
  
“Being an idiot who screws up every good thing he gets and is going to die alone,” Pete responds bitterly, and, yeah, maybe that was melodramatic, but he’s Pete fucking Wentz and they should all be used to it by now.  
  
“Oh,” says Ryland, nodding like that’s a perfectly normal response. “Well, want to move? We’re setting up some beer pong.”  
  
Pete hauls his idiot self up, wonders why nobody’s rushing to his side to comfort him, and then remembers that they’re all drunk, high, or both. He considers asking Travie if he has any E, but he doesn’t deserve ecstasy right now. He doesn’t deserve Mikey, either. Mikey was ecstasy.  
  
He heaves a deep sigh and goes off to cry in the privacy of his own room.  
  
  
  


_**Us girls, we are so magical.  
Soft skin, red lips, so kissable,  
hard to resist, so touchable,  
too good to deny it.  
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent. **  
-I Kissed A Girl, Katy Perry_

  
  
  
Gabe’s a fifth of the way through his bottle when he finally finds William. There’s a group of them (Bill, Katy, Victoria, Nate, Suarez, and Hayley) sitting on the floor in a circle. Looks like a game. Gabe fucking loves games.  
  
He drops to his knees, crawls up on all fours behind William and whispers “Boo,” in his ear. William jumps a fucking foot and spills half his drink over himself.  
  
“Fucking creep,” William laughs.  
  
“You love it, dollface,” Gabe says, winking.  
  
“Yeah, well. Wanna play? Truth or dare, your fave.”  
  
Gabe scoots into the circle.  
  
“Victoria, truth or dare?” Nate asks.  
  
“Dare.”  
  
“Kiss Katy.”  
  
“Seriously? Why does everyone always do that?” Katy whines, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“You’re the one who wrote the song,” mutters Suarez under his breath.  
  
“Okay, fine, Victoria, kiss Hayley,” amends Nate.  
  
“Yeeeeeeah, ‘bout time I got some action around here,” laughs Hayley.  
  
Victoria’s already more than a bit tipsy, practically falling over as she crawls over to Hayley. Gabe expects a peck. Instead, Victoria slides one hand around Hayley’s neck, kisses her long and slow, and Gabe’s sure there’s tongue involved. Nate looks like he might pass out.  
  
Victoria pulls away. “Now that’s a kiss, motherfuckers,” she crows. Yeah, definitely drunk. Gabe decides that Victoria’s the only girl he would ever go straight for.  
  
Hayley laughs and nods, looking more than a little surprised. Gabe wonders what the hell happened to the innocent little Southern girl he met when Paramore first signed.  
  
“A’ight. Gabe,” slurs Victoria.  
  
“Dare,” Gabe says promptly. He’s never yet met a dare he didn’t love, up to and including the one where he had to sound check naked one night.  
  
“Give Billiam a lap dance,” she giggles, and Gabe’s done this one so many times he’s tempted to ask for something better. But it’s Gabe, and he’s never missed an opportunity to put on a show, so.  
  
“Couch,” he directs to William, and William’s almost comically quick to obey. Gabe takes his time, stretching his head from side to side, warming up with a couple experimental hip-swishes.  
  
It’s one of Gabe’s favorites, “Don’t Cha.” He starts out slow, rolling his hips only slightly, letting his hands glide up his thighs and hips and torso and neck, raising them above his head and upping the intensity til his hips are swiveling, snakelike. Gabe likes to think he gives a pretty damn good lapdance, and right now, the looks on everyone’s faces are doing nothing to contradict that.  
  
He takes one sultry step forward, runs his hands back down his chest, licks his bottom lip. William’s trying to pretend like he’s unaffected, but his fingers are digging a little too hard into the couch, and just that slight sign is enough to make Gabe want to throw him against a wall and fuck him senseless.  
  
He stands in front of William so they’re toe-to-toe, lets his head tilt back ever so slightly as he slips his hand under his shirt, raises it up a few inches, and then dips his fingers just slightly below his waistband, tempted to touch himself right there. His eyes are locked with William’s the entire time, and he’s imagining (and William knows he’s imagining) that it’s William doing the touching. He can see William’s breath quicken.  
  
In one fluid motion, he turns around and almost sits, balancing his weight on his hands so his ass is grinding into William’s hips, and William lets out a long moan and arches back to get even more friction, and _Jesus_ is that hot.  
  
“Uh-uh-uh,” croons Gabe, turning his head to whisper against William’s ear, and he raises his hips so William can do nothing but wiggle pointlessly. He can feel William’s ribcage rising and falling unevenly against his back, and he keeps his hips raised for a few beats, rubbing against William’s torso, never making any useful contact, teasing mercilessly.  
  
Gabe’s half-hard now, breathing rough and heavy, making mental plans to carry William off as soon as they’re done and find a spare bedroom and, well, you know.  
  
He still has his head turned sideways, so he can see the way William’s lips are parted as he pants. A bead of sweat slides down his cheek, and Gabe licks it off before he can stop himself, and William whimpers. Gabe lowers himself down, ever so slowly, and starts grinding into those hips again.  
  
“You know how hot you look right now, Bilvy? Your mouth open like that, your lips all wet and ready?” he whispers in William’s ear, so only the two of them can hear it. William tries to suppress his groan and fails miserably. “Save the moaning, there’s plenty of time for that later,” Gabe breathes. He stands up straight, takes a theatrical bow, and leaves William squirming and flushed on the couch.  
  
  
  


_**We live on front porches  
and swing life away.**  
-Swing Life Away, Rise Against_

  
  
  
Butcher’s content, sitting there on the swing, passing the joint back and forth with Sisky. Surprisingly, nobody else has interrupted them on the balcony, and the party noise has faded to a dull roar, and the stars are out in full force, and life is pretty good, and Butcher’s content. He’s also smoked a lot of weed tonight, so that might have something to do with the languid feeling that’s stolen through his limbs. A lot to do with it, even. It’s not quite exuberant enough to be happiness as he usually experiences it. He’s just content.  
  
The swing kind of creaks a little, but that’s okay. He wonders how much gayer Pete Wentz could get, what with having a swing on his balcony and all. It even has a flowery cushion. Really, Pete?  
  
Sisky seems happy too, although it’s not hard to make Sisky happy. Butcher thinks that if people were colors, Sisky would be a bright, uncomplicated yellow. Gabe would be the obnoxious purple of the hoodie he always wears. Pete would be navy blue, a lot more predictable than he thinks he is. William would be greenish-bluish-grey, like the Maine ocean on a sunny day. Hayley would be fire-engine red. Brendon would be burnt orange. Cassadee would be hot pink. He himself would be forest green. He’s not sure why, but he’s sure.  
  
There are rainbows floating through his head, and he realizes, once again, how high he must be.  
  
There are rainbows in his head and there are stars in Sisky’s eyes. He doesn’t realize he said that aloud til Sisky giggles.  
  
“Dude, I am a fucking star,” laughs Sisky. It’s one of Butcher’s favorite things in the world, that laugh.  
  
Oops. Definitely said that out loud, too.  
  
“Sorry,” he says.  
  
“Don’t be sorry, man,” says Sisky, and there are still stars in his eyes and wisps of gold floating around in his hair from the yellow balcony light, and Butcher leans forward and kisses him, soft, curious, and it feels just as good as he always thought it would, and even though he pulls away after just a second, it felt like eternity, because everything feels that way when you’re high.  
  
But Butcher’s definitely happy now. Not content. Happy.  
  
  
  


_**She got the power in her hand  
To shock you like you won't believe.  
Saw her in the Amazon with the voltage running through her skin.  
Standing there with nothing on, she's gonna teach me how to swim.**  
-Electric Feel, MGMT_

  
  
  
**Second guest bedroom.**  
  
Gabe’s never been so glad to get a text message. When he finishes the lapdance (to thunderous applause, he might add) he has to give Suarez his dare, and he definitely has to stick around to watch Suarez walk in front of the TV and moon all the Beer Drinkers, because, face it, that’s a fucking excellent dare.  
  
But somehow, William disappears by the time Spencer and Mike finish cursing. Sneaky little cocksucker, thinks Gabe. And then, of course, speaking of cock sucking, he’s still hard and where the fuck is William with that amazing mouth of his?  
  
He literally jumps up the second he reads the three words, practically sprints down the hallway.  
  
William’s already naked by the time he slips into the room, and, _fuck_. All six feet three inches of sun-deprived skin are reclining on the bed, one arm behind his head, grinning devilishly, working it like nothing Gabe’s ever seen. God, can that boy work it.  
  
“Lucky I got here first, you didn’t lock the door or anything,” says Gabe, trying to sound casual, trying to stop himself from running across the room and pouncing on that phenomenal body.  
  
“Lucky for you,” says William, his voice doing that low sultry thing that makes every ounce of blood in Gabe rush straight to his dick.  
  
“Hmmph?” is all Gabe can muster in terms of questioning.  
  
“I’m so fucking hard from that lapdance that I was ready to do it with whoever walked in that door first. I just wouldn’t have been able to help myself,” William purrs. Gabe flicks his eyes down automatically, and, well, yeah, that looks about right.  
  
“Slut,” growls Gabe, and he yanks off his shirt and abandons all pretense of calmness, and his long legs get him to the foot of the bed in two paces. From there he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, because there’s William all spread out beneath him, looking up with one eyebrow raised, skinny chest leading to skinny stomach leading to bony (gorgeous) hipbones and that delicate little trail of hair leading to…nnnnnugh.  
  
That’s honestly the sound Gabe’s brain makes, and before conscious thought can return he’s climbing onto the bed, crawling between William’s knees, and taking every last inch of William’s dick into his mouth, and…nnnnnugh, again, seriously.  
  
  
  


_**I'm sorry I can't be everything to you.  
Your place is at the heart of what I do.  
Everything's for you.**  
-Don’t Hate Me, The Get Up Kids_

  
  
  
Fuck Travis McCoy. Where does he have a right to dance like that with Brendon, when he’s all fucking promise-ringed with Katy and shit? Fuck Brendon, for having the nicest ass this side of wherever Johnny Depp lives. Fuck Pete, for throwing these stupid parties to begin with. Fuck ‘em all.  
  
Of course, Ryan doesn’t really mean it. But he’s locked in the bathroom, sitting in the shower with copious amounts of vodka in him, and anger is easier than crying.  
  
He’s Ryan Ross, after all. Ryan Ross does not cry. Ryan Ross is poised and rational. Ryan Ross does not ever fucking emote, except when writing clever, vindicating lyrics about cheating ex-girlfriends (who are actually Brendon) and Chuck Palahniuk characters who bleed on ballroom floors (who are actually metaphors for how Ryan feels whenever Brendon kisses someone else).  
  
Yeah, okay, so maybe Ryan is crying. Like, a lot.  
  
But really, how many times is he going to have to go through this? It’s always the fucking same thing. They show up at a party, and Brendon starts dancing, and because of his incredible ass and his incredible prettiness and slight sluttiness, he always ends up sleeping with someone by the end of the night, and that someone is never Ryan.  
  
Usually, though, he handles it better than this. Usually he just forces a laugh when he sees Brendon disappear bedroom-wards with Pete or whoever (once it was both William and Gabe, which was disturbing) and goes back to talking about music with Patrick. Usually he’s sober. Usually his father did not die a month ago, so usually, he’s not depressed out of his fucking skull even before Brendon starts doing his routine.  
  
Ryan leans his head back against the tiled wall and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears.  
  
It was only one kiss. It all started with one fucking kiss.  
  
It was way before this whole fame thing, on their first tour, when they all got drunk for the first time, and Brendon just grabbed Ryan and kissed him. Once, no tongue, and he didn’t think much of it at the time because, hey, he was drunk.  
  
But afterwards, he couldn’t help but notice how Brendon tended to pout when he was nervous, and it made his lower lip look ten different kinds of gorgeous. And then he noticed the eyes, big and liquid, expressive, like puppy-dog eyes. And then there was the smile, the straight even blindingly white teeth that could light up a room. From there it was only a matter of time before he got butterflies in his stomach every time Brendon walked into the room. Butterflies, or an erection if Brendon was doing his sexy thing on stage, or a painful tightness in his own chest whenever Brendon looked the slightest bit upset.  
  
In short, one little kiss, and now he’s fucked.  
  
Ryan shoves some of the tears off his cheeks and takes another long gulp from his bottle.  
  
There’s a knock at the door.  
  
“Ry?” It’s Brendon’s voice. Ryan’s almost too angry to care at this point. Brendon probably just wants to know if he and Travie can have sex in the bathroom.  
  
“Fuck off,” he slurs.  
  
“Ry, what’s wrong?” Brendon’s voice sounds alarmed. Ryan doesn’t care.  
  
“Fuck off, whore,” he says, louder, not much clearer.  
  
“Okay, open the door, or I’ll kick it down.”  
  
Ryan doesn’t dignify that with a response.  
  
“Okay, maybe not, but Andy’s here and he knows how to pick locks,” Brendon’s got a panicked edge to his voice now. Ryan hears a couple scratchy noises, and suddenly the door is swinging open.  
  
Huh. Andy. Should’ve guessed, actually.  
  
But there’s Brendon, standing in the doorway, eyes huge and dark in his pale face. And even through the haze of vodka and anger, Ryan can’t help but love him.  
  
  
  


_**Je veux te voir dans un film pornographique, en action avec ta bite.**  
[rough translation: I want to see you in a porno, playing with your dick.]  
-Je Veux Te Voir, Yelle_

  
  
  
Travie kind of forgets about trying to find Pete. But fuck it, really, because that moan could get anyone distracted.  
  
It’s Bill. It could only be Bill, with a voice like that. And when he realizes the door is open, just a crack, he can’t help himself. Because, fuck, it’s _William Beckett_ , and he’s had this eentsy-weentsy but kind of huge crush on Bill for basically forever, because he has a good voice, okay, and because he definitely makes sex faces on stage, and his hipbones are definitely better than Katy’s hipbones but he’s so not thinking about Katy right now.  
  
To put it simply, Travis McCoy wants to fuck Bill Beckett.  
  
Cut to where Travis is sliding up against the doorframe, feeling like he’s actually being magnetically pulled in two directions, because, hello, _bad_ , but also, wow.  
  
He feels his breath catch in his throat when he finally sees what’s going on. That would be Gabe’s head, right there, bobbing up and down in a way that kind of makes Travie very uncomfortable. And then there’s…that.  
  
Bill’s got his head thrown back, his mouth (God, that mouth) wide open, lips glistening pink, and when his tongue flicks out to moisten his bottom lip Travie actually feels his dick twitch.  
  
Which, wow, so wrong. This is one of his best friends. This is the part where he runs away.  
  
But he can’t. He’s glued to the spot, tracing the contours of William’s body with his eyes, following the curve of Bill’s neck as he tilts his head back, following the lines of his fingers as he scrabbles for purchase in the sheets, gasping at the arch of William’s body as he comes, and thank God Bill moans like that, inappropriately loud, because it covers up the quick little hiss of air from Travie’s own lips.  
  
He has to close his eyes for a second, has to calm down, because let’s face it, this is not leading anywhere good. But he has to admit, when he hears Gabe’s voice, low and muted from inside, his first thought is _that should be me_.  
  
And then Bill moans again.  
  
Travie is absolutely unable to move, because part of him (the sensible, straight, non-pervy part) is telling him to run the fuck away, and the other part (the part that thinks with his dick, and for Travie, that’s always been a very large part) is telling him that this is something he needs to see.  
  
Too right. Gabe’s got that classic Saporta grin on his face, wide and confident and easy, and his hand is between Bill’s long legs, and Travie can see Bill’s chest rising and falling and he can see Gabe’s fingers going in and out, and he must be some sort of freak because all this is making him painfully hard.  
  
He squeezes his eyes tight again. Time to make a choice.  
  
Bill’s voice makes the choice for him. He opens his eyes.  
  
They’re moving together now, some monstrous symphony of surging muscles and breathless gasps, and it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen and the best, because Gabe was never involved in any of his fantasies and _that should be me_ , but _William_.  
  
Bill’s biting at his lip, face contorted beautifully, and it’s the exact same face he makes on stage, and Travie kind of mentally pats himself on the back for calling that. But those noises, that’s what does it. Bill moans, and Travie bites back a gasp and slides one hand down the waistband of his pants before he can think about this any more.  
  
Bill’s panting, groaning breathily, whimpering, and Travis has to shove one knuckle into his mouth to silence himself while he works himself quickly, desperately, with the other hand. He can see that Bill’s close, his hair sweaty across his forehead, his body arching and twisting, his eyes rolling back in his head, but nothing prepares him for the noise at the end of it, a high keening whine in the back of his throat and then a rough, ragged groan that has Travie spilling into his own hand, ashamed and embarrassed and disgusted with himself.  
  
But he thinks to himself, as he makes a beeline for the bathroom, that weirder things have probably happened in Pete’s hallway.  
  
  
  


_**Well, I bet that you look good on the dancefloor.  
I don't know if you're looking for romance, or…  
I don't know what you're looking for.**  
-I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor, Arctic Monkeys_

  
  
  
Victoria just likes to dance. She’s been dancing for an hour now, first with Ryland, then Suarez, then Nate and Zac, and after Chislett she lost track. She’s dancing alone now. She lets herself go, letting the rhythm roll through her ribcage and waist and hips, melting into it, half-closing her eyes and running one hand through her hair. Her lips curve up into a smile when she sees Cassadee trying to mimic her.  
  
Good luck, kid.  
  
Victoria’s ready for something to happen, anything. What a fucking year. Tour, and that thing with Jason is over, and now she just wants to have fun, fuck it all to hell.  
  
Plus she’s been a little turned on ever since Gabe’s lapdance, but she’ll never admit it. He doesn’t need any help in the ego department.  
  
“Hey, gorgeous,” coos Alex Gaskarth, and she kind of wonders what the fuck he’s doing here but she has no problem whatsoever with his presence. “I was in the area, figured I’d drop by. May I have this dance?” he smirks, and without waiting for a response, he flips her around and presses himself against her, so they’re back-to-front, and God can this boy dance.  
  
Their hips find the beat together, pressing tight, and Victoria melds herself against his chest and lets her hips flow deeper into the rhythm. His fingers are lacing with hers, and he brings both of their hands to rest dangerously high on her thighs, his breath hot on the side of her neck, sending shivers down her spine, making her pulse race in all sorts of delicious unexpected ways.  
  
Fuck it all to hell.  
  
  
  


_**Cheer up and dry your damp eyes and tell me when it rains  
and I’ll blend up that rainbow above you and shoot it through your veins  
‘cause your heart has a lack of color and we should’ve known  
that we’d grow up sooner or later, ‘cause we wasted all our free time alone.**  
-Rainbow Veins, Owl City _

  
  
  
Brendon can’t breathe. He literally just forgets how.  
  
“Ry?” he squeaks.  
  
Ryan just stares, slack-jawed, eyes red and puffed into slits, half-empty bottle dangling from one hand, face striped with tear tracks.  
  
Brendon realizes, in some far-off corner of his mind, that this is the first time he’s seen Ryan cry. He was dry-eyed even at his father’s funeral; trembling and pale, but dry-eyed.  
  
And Brendon’s babbling suddenly, slamming the door shut behind him and rushing over to the shower, stammering breathlessly, “C’mon Ry, it’ll be okay, you’ll be fine, just tell me all about it, shh, please don’t cry, please, I’ll make it better, just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it, please.” He can feel the tears rising in his own eyes as he steps into the shower and pries the bottle gently from Ryan’s grasp.  
  
“C’mere, Ry, I’ll make it better,” Brendon says desperately, sitting down next to him on the cold tile.  
  
Ryan sets his jaw and announces, “No.”  
  
“What is it? Please?” Brendon can hear the sob in his own voice, but he’s so far past caring, because there’s this giant black crater opening up in his ribcage where his heart used to be.  
  
“Why aren’t you off fucking Travie?” Ryan slurs accusingly, turning angry eyes in Brendon’s direction.  
  
“Because I don’t want to, I don’t give a fuck about Travie, you should know that by now, _fuck_ Ry, what’s wrong?” he pleads.  
  
Ryan shakes his head.  
  
Brendon feels the tears burn their way down his cheeks, and he’s never felt so helpless in his life.  
  
Because this is _Ryan_. Ryan who he’s been in love with for God only knows how long, and whenever Ryan so much as frowns Brendon feels like dying. And now Ryan’s just _broken_ , shattered, and Brendon’s powerless, because even with half a bottle of vodka in him, Ryan doesn’t let people in. So all Brendon can do is gather that fragile body in his arms and hold on for dear life.  
  
Ten minutes of silence, and he thinks Ryan might have passed out, so he lets the words just slip out.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
He wishes he could take it back as soon as he’s said it.  
  
Ryan snorts, his head snapping up from Brendon's shoulder, and he stares, and there's this _venom_ coming out of his red-ringed eyes like nothing Brendon's ever seen before.  
  
“No you don’t,” Ryan grits out, and that was _so_ not the answer he was expecting.  
But Brendon can’t hold it in any more.  
  
“Yeah, I do. I fucking love you, Ryan Ross, even though you’re an asshole sometimes, and I can never figure out your facial expressions, and your sense of humor is crap, and you’re a total diva. I love you. Whenever you frown, I want to make you smile, and whenever you’re sad, I want to fix it, and I can’t, because you never fucking say what’s wrong, and I can’t breathe when I look at you, and I want to kiss you an average of sixty-three times a day, and it hurts, fucking hell, Ryan, this hurts because, duh, I know you don't love me, and I’m an idiot, please just forget I said anything.”  
  
And at some point during all of this, Ryan started inching away, so now he’s pressed against the wall opposite Brendon, and his eyes are black holes.  
  
Ryan starts shaking his head from side to side, slowly, dazedly, and he’s stumbling into a standing position now.  
  
But then his hand hits the shower knob in an effort to balance. They’re both drenched within seconds, spitting out water and shaking it out of their eyes. Brendon splutters for a moment, then says, “You idiot.” His voice cracks embarrassingly.  
  
He’s about to run for the door when Ryan pins him to the wall and kisses him.  
  
Someone must have just hit Brendon over the head with a brick.  
  
But, no, that’s Ryan, Ryan grasping desperately at the soaked fabric of his shirt, trying to pull him closer, taking deep hungry sucks at Brendon’s lower lip, and Brendon can’t breathe again, but this time it’s for _such_ a better reason.  
  
“Hey Bren?” Ryan whispers when their mouths separate to gasp for oxygen. “You’re the idiot. Of course I love you, dumbass.”  
  
And it takes a second to compute, but then Brendon’s Dorothy, emerging from sepia, seeing the world in vivid Technicolor for the first time in three years. So this is happiness.  
  
  
  


_**We lay on the bed there, kissing just for practice.  
Could we please be objective?  
‘Cause the other boys are queuing up behind us.**  
-Seeing Other People, Belle And Sebastian_

  
  
  
It’s almost quiet by four in the morning, except for the laughter behind them from the game of Spin The Bottle. Spencer and Jon are sunk side-by-side into the couch.  
  
“I don’t get it,” says Spencer, frowning at the coffee table.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Gay kissing. Why everybody around here seems to be so fond of it. I think we’re the only ones on the fucking label who haven’t kissed a guy at some point,” Spencer slurs, draining the last of his beer.  
  
“Not true. I kissed William once, you’re on your own,” Jon smirks.  
  
“No way! I would’ve heard about that.” Spencer feels vaguely betrayed.  
  
“I was the only one who remembered it the next morning.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, that makes sense. But I’m sure there’s got to be someone else who hasn’t.”  
  
“Nope.” Jon reaches for the six-pack on the table, realizes it’s empty, and lets out a deep sigh.  
  
“Mike Carden?”  
  
“Tom Conrad. Duh, why else would Tom quit the band?”  
  
“Nobody tells me anything around here. Um, okay, one of the guys from Four Year Strong?”  
  
“Don’t count. They don’t come to the parties.”  
  
“Fair point. Oh, Andy!”  
  
“Not technically on the label.”  
  
“…I guess that would take care of Joe, then. Ooh! Tyga!” He shoots Jon a triumphant smile.  
  
“Pete. And Gabe. Are you kidding? He’s like a mini-Travie, Gabe called dibs as soon as he walked through the door.”  
  
“Fucking shit. We’re so incestuous.”  
  
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s mostly Gabe and Bill and Pete.”  
  
“No, that doesn’t make me feel any better! I mean, what’s wrong with me that they haven’t made a move?” Spencer’s full-on affronted now, and it doesn’t help when Jon starts laughing at him.  
  
“Your eyes tend to emit fuck-off laser beams when guys hit on you,” he answers, in a “DUH” tone of voice.  
  
“Oh. Well, shit. So you have to go gay to get any action around here? I mean, honestly, I’m going to forget how kissing works if this goes on much longer.” He scowls at Jon.  
  
Jon rolls his eyes.  
  
“Fine, fine, I’ll kiss you, Smith.”  
  
Before Spencer can say that was totally _not_ what he was getting at, Jon turns his head and kisses him, careless and drunkenly sloppy, his stubble scratching at Spencer’s cheek, and Spencer gets it. 


End file.
